


When a Child's Board Game Outsmarts a Genius

by Deductions_of_a_Psychopath



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cluedo, Friendship, John is far too patient, Sherlock is a child as usual, Sherlock is bored, anger at a child's board game
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-30
Updated: 2012-10-30
Packaged: 2017-11-17 08:29:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/549593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deductions_of_a_Psychopath/pseuds/Deductions_of_a_Psychopath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pretty self-explanatory. Sherlock is bored, John suggests Cluedo. Rage ensues. It's a child's board game, how can Sherlock possibly be wrong?</p>
            </blockquote>





	When a Child's Board Game Outsmarts a Genius

**Author's Note:**

> My first work posted here on AO3. Hope you enjoy!

Grey: The hue of the hazy early morning London sky, the colourful representation of a common mood in the flat, the colour of Sherlock’s eyes when he hadn't slept, enhanced by the dark circles surrounding them. After living with Sherlock for a year, John could assign a colour to just about every one of the detective’s moods: grey for boredom or general inactivity, scarlet when he was charged from a case, a spectrum ranging from vibrant oranges to melancholy royal blues when he played his violin, and black on anything that could be considered a ‘danger night’. Those were rare, but still in existence, much to John's worry and displeasure. Being close to black, the grey moods usually led to darker tones, though not always. John considered his own average mood to be a mellow olive green from years of practicing patience in the medical service, only occasionally tinted around the edges with brilliant reds or yellows when Sherlock yanked him into the thrill of the chase.

****

Sherlock was in one of his grey moods. He had been for four days, and it kept slipping; darker hues seeping in as time wore on. ‘London criminals are doing a remarkable job of being dull.’ Sherlock had said. The statement had come only two days in. When John walked in on the fourth day to find Sherlock inverted completely upside-down with his feet hanging off the top of the couch and another three nicotine patches plastered to his arm, he knew something had to be done.

“You usually only use those to help you focus,” John noted aloud, nodding his head in the direction of the exposed patches.

“That remains true.”

“Well then what are you focusing on? I know for a fact that you don’t have a case,” he inquired, folding his arms at the man.

“Remaining sane.”

John rolled his eyes and left the room, returning with a box and dropping it loudly onto the table. Sherlock forced open an eye and leaned up from his convoluted position to get a better look as the excess blood drained from his head.

“Cluedo? That’s a child’s entertainment. If you’re intending to alleviate my boredom by presenting me with something that is mentally stimulating to you, I feel I should inform you that-“

“I don’t find it ‘mentally stimulating’,” John snapped, biting back his other comments, “It’s just a board game. A distraction. It shouldn’t require any thought from you, right? Just something to waste time.”

Much to John’s surprise, Sherlock wrenched himself from the sofa and strode to the table; a silky flutter of royal blue material in his wake from the tie of his open dressing gown. The sleeve slipped over the exposed patches and John did his best to ignore them. Sherlock sat down at the table and immediately began setting up the board game, avoiding John’s eyes at every moment. John was right, at least this would be some form of distraction.

****

“Given that Professor Plum is in the same room as the revolver and I have the card with the candlestick _in my hand_ , the only logical conclusion is that Colonel Mustard must have been the perpetrator in the ballroom with the rope!” Sherlock all but bellowed, bending his cards in his hand in frustration. John was forcing himself to control the urge to laugh that popped up between the yelling and muttered swearing at the board.

“I can tell you for a fact that your conclusion is wrong,” John sighed, irritated as he threw down a card as proof.

“Well then obviously you’ve done something wrong or the victim is an attention-seeking fraud who staged his or her suicide to make it look like the work of a murderer,” Sherlock hissed, dropping his crinkled cards in exasperation.

“It’s a child’s board game, that’s impossible.” John tried.

“It’s logical.”

“It’s logically wrong.”

The doctor’s comment pushed Sherlock over the edge. He kicked his chair back as he picked up the board, ignoring the playing pieces that scattered across the floor. He carried the board to the mantle before spotting his penknife still puncturing the stack of papers and removed it, thrusting the blade through the center of the board, effectively pinning it to the wall just to the left of the mantle. He wrung his fists and stormed off to his room, leaving an almost tangible cloud of anger behind him. John sighed and picked up the pieces that had landed close to his feet, tossing them into the box and leaving it on the table. He plugged in the kettle and brewed a cup of tea, calming his grated nerves as he sipped it and flipped through a medical journal that Sherlock had removed from a dusty shelf. After he took the last sip, he returned to the kitchen and made another cup, carrying it as he walked to Sherlock’s door and knocked softly.

“Brought you something,” John called through the crack in the door.

“No.” was the simple response.

Deciding it wasn’t worth the fight, John set the cup and saucer on the floor outside the door, letting it make just enough of a discernable noise that Sherlock would be able to recognize it. John walked away and returned to the medical journal, kicking his feet up on the coffee table as he reminisced about reading the same text in Uni years ago.

****

Sherlock waited until the familiar footsteps had receded and stopped altogether. He was standing in the middle of the room with his eyes closed, listening. John had set down the full cup of tea, walked to the living room, sat in his chair, and removed his shoes by the sound of it. It took Sherlock a bit over fifteen minutes for the motivation of solving the ‘case’ to fully come over him, but he stepped out of his room and went straight to the table, picking up the card packet that was lying askew in the middle of the box and extracting the secret cards from it. Scowling at them, he at least got the satisfaction of finishing the game in one way or another, even though he had been wrong. Child’s game. Required too little thought, he told himself, trying to validate his idiocy. Cocking his head and turning toward John in the living room, a smirk spread across his face.

“Want to play again?”


End file.
